His whip and spur, the sluggish heart to move
At his least will; nor can it find relief.
O souls of love and passion! if ye dwell
Yet on this earth, and ye, great Shades of Love!
Linger, and see my passion and my grief.

Yonder flies a kingfisher, and pauses, fluttering like a butterfly in
the air, then dives toward a fish, and, failing, perches on the
projecting wall. Doves from neighboring dove-cotes alight on the
parapet of the fort, fearless of the quiet cattle who find there a
breezy pasture. These doves, in taking flight, do not rise from the
ground at once, but, edging themselves closer to the brink, with a
caution almost ludicrous in such airy things, trust themselves upon the
breeze with a shy little hop, and at the next moment are securely on
the wing.

How the abundant sunlight inundates everything! The great clumps of
grass and clover are imbedded in it to the roots; it flows in among
their stalks, like water; the lilac-bushes bask in it eagerly; the
topmost leaves of the birches are burnished. A vessel sails by with
plash and roar, and all the white spray along her side is sparkling
with sunlight. Yet there is sorrow in the world, and it reached
Petrarch even before Laura died,--when it reached her. This exquisite
sonnet shows it:--

SONNET 123.

"I' vidi in terra angelici costumi."
I once beheld on earth celestial graces,
And heavenly beauties scarce to mortals known,
Whose memory lends nor joy nor grief alone,
But all things else bewilders and effaces.
I saw how tears had left their weary traces
Within those eyes that once like sunbeams shone,
I heard those lips breathe low and plaintive moan,
Whose spell might once have taught the hills their places.
Love, wisdom, courage, tenderness, and truth,
Made ill their mourning strains more high and dear
Than ever wove sweet sounds for mortal ear;
And heaven seemed listening in such saddest ruth
The very leaves upon the boughs to soothe,
Such passionate sweetness filled the atmosphere.

These sonnets are in Petrarch's earlier manner; but the death of Laura
brought a change. Look at yonder schooner coming down the bay, straight
toward us; she is hauled close to the wind, her jib is white in the
sunlight, her larger sails are touched with the same snowy lustre, and
all the swelling canvas is rounded into such lines of beauty as
scarcely anything else in the world--hardly even the perfect outl